Tat
by FireHeart Alchemist
Summary: Sherlock undergoes a daring mission. A one-shot originally posted on LJ. Hinted pre-slash.


**Tat**

There was just something about Dr. John H. Watson that separates him from the rest of London, or so Sherlock believes. In fact, he is not the only one to come to this conclusion. The main thing about John that makes him so interesting and downright fascinating is that there is nothing blatantly interesting or obvious about him at all!

Unlike his flatmate. Oh, most certainly unlike his flatmate. It's comical, almost, how different the two of them are. While Sherlock is all intangible wit and cleverness, all sharp angles and impetuousness and energy and logic, John is all down-to-earth common sense, empathic eyes and (above all else) patience. How the two of them get along so fabulously is unknown, but it must surely have something to do with the thrill of the chase.

And right now, Sherlock was most certainly dying of boredom. God, he was bored. Bored bored ibored/i! There was nothing to do! No new cases (worthy of his superior intelligence), no experiments brewing in the bottom of John's favourite mug or stashed next to the kippers in the fridge, no bullets in John's gun, no John...

The detective huffed angrily and ran his hands through his incorrigible mop of hair. Without John here, there was simply nothing to _do_! He had no idea when he first met the good doctor on how much he would rely on the other's company. How much the doctor intrigued him, how effectively he saved him from drowning in ennui?

Why, just the other day, Sherlock found out that the H in John H. Watson stood for Hamish. Apparently, he was born in Scotland, and moved to England in his youth. As of yet, Sherlock has been unsuccessful in getting John to revert back to his native brogue. Operation Hamish, he called it. _Pity really. Oh well, that's just one more experiment then..._

His thoughts were interrupted by the click of the lock of 221B Baker Street's door. The fact that Mrs. Hudson was already in, presently making tea, accompanied by the familiar gait up the 17 stairs to the flat informed Sherlock that John had returned from grocery shopping.

He didn't offer his assistance, as was his custom, when John entered, arms laden with various foodstuffs that Sherlock would mostly avoid eating. His diet of coffee, nicotine, and the occasional take away suited him just fine, thank you very much!

John, slightly red in the face from the exertion and the (unnoticeably) increased temperature in the flat gave Sherlock a long-suffering sigh before moving to the kitchen. The doctor (now free of his load), paced towards his chair before flopping down tiredly. Sherlock inwardly smiled when he noticed John lift the collar of his jumper a bit.

This was all another experiment, of course. Operation Highlander. (And no, he has not seen the film, the title was simply deemed fitting.) When rifling through some of John's belonging in the hope of finding more bullets for the Browning (the wall had it coming, naturally) he found an old photograph of John and his army buddies in Afghanistan.

It must have been taken while off-duty, because none of the men were in either their uniform or their fatigues. Baggy trousers and sweaty tees were worn by all, as they enjoyed what looked to be beer, enjoying some of the sun.

What was most intriguing, however, was John's left arm. Or rather specifically, the patch of skin just below his shirt sleeve. Sherlock could just make out the ends of what was no doubt a very intricate tattoo. Inspired by Highland warrior markings, no doubt, judging by the end of a knot and the use of that particular shade of blue.

For the sake of curiosity, the detective wanted to see the rest of the tattoo. By all means, he could have imply asked his flatmate, but that would mean admitting to searching through John's things (not that John didn't know about it), but also that was simply far too easy. And boring. Sherlock couldn't handle boring right now.

His first attempt at getting a glimpse were blatant invasions of privacy. He tried to catch John changing, or when he was in the shower. For some strange reason, John had flipped out when he was caught, and lectured him profusely on the meaning of such things as 'personal space' and 'privacy'. Now really, the good doctor was over reacting. Surely, had Sherlock been trying to get a glimpse at, well, certain parts of John's anatomy, he might have understood.

Regardless, the detective decided that the only way to rid John of his jumpers (besides burning them, John wasn't all that happy about that idea either) was to get John to willingly remove them himself. Thus, the increase in room temperature. Sherlock had been slowly cranking up the furnace, about one degree twice a day for the past several days. He hypothesized that the gradual introduction of increased temperatures would serve two purposes. The first, to make John remove his jumper (or boil to death, which was only a 12% chance). The second, to remove any suspicions from himself.

It didn't take long for his plan to unfold. Not five minutes since John sat down, he was looking considerably flushed. The doctor got up and made for the windows, no doubt to open them. A muttered curse disturbed the silence.

"Sherlock, why can't I open the windows?"

"Because they're broken." John sighed.

"Yes, I can see they're broken, Sherlock, but _why_ are they broken?"

"Now really, John, if you'd wanted to know that you should have asked that question first..."

"Just answer me Sherlock!" My, he was getting rather impatient now, wasn't he?

"It was an experiment."

"An exp...? Blood hell, Sherlock, do you intend to fix it?"

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"The experiment is ongoing." John lifted his hands in defeat and trudged his way over to the furnace. "You might want to know that it's broken too."

"What's broken?"

"The furnace."

"Is that part of your experiment, too?"

"No. It broke earlier this week when I was rearranging the furniture."

"But the furniture isn't..."

"I put it all _back_, obviously."

John cursed once more. A thin film of sweat was starting to coat his brow before he finally moved to remove his oatmeal-coloured jumper. Sherlock heard the sound of wool on cotton and immediately sat up.

(Oh for God's sake...)

John was wearing a dress shirt under his jumper. Long sleeved. The doctor let out a small breath (a sigh of relief, really) before he moved into the kitchen. Seizing the opportunity to salvage Operation Highlander, Sherlock followed him into the kitchen.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you." John looked up from the groceries, looking something akin to a man about to swat a particularly annoying fly.

"I'm kind of busy right now, Sherlock. If you want tea, either do it yourself, of help me put things away." John didn't wait for an answer, and continued putting various tins and jars and packages away. Feeling more than a bit useless, Sherlock plucked a jar of Branston Pickle from one of the bags. In an instant, a brilliant idea formed in his mind, and he put the jar on the edge of a counter, and continued unpacking the bag. It wasn't long before the jar was 'accidentally' sent crashing to the floor.

"Christ, Sherlock! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" Sherlock stared at him blankly, though he felt a small twinge in his chest at having scared John. (Guilt? Impossible. Deleted.) He moved towards the sink for a broom and dustpan, which only made John yell at him more.

"Don't move, you dolt! You'll cut your feet on the glass, or slip on the Branston." Sherlock felt his heart warm a little a John's concern. (What was this? Mild affection? Curious. Stored for further exploration.)

It took him a second to snap out of his reverie to notice that John had his sleeves rolled up. To his elbows. Aside from this being the most skin Sherlock has ever seen the man bare before, what interested him more was the expanse of in visible from John's left wrist all the way up to his elbow.

(Most curious indeed.)

Sherlock didn't move a muscle as John cleared up the veritable minefield the kitchen became, and then move to the sink to wash the brown muck from his hands. This action left his side vulnerable. With one step from his particularly long legs, Sherlock was next to John, lifting up the side of his dress shirt to reveal...and undershirt. Sherlock couldn't recall every being this angry at an article of clothing before.

"What the _hell_ are you doing Sherlock?"

"Judging by the usual patterns in tattoos on men, I had hypothesized that your tattoo, which has expanded since you were first employed to Afghanistan, continues to your left side. Your undershirt, however, is in my way." Sherlock, for all his brilliance, only just noticed how very close he was to John, and how potentially uncomfortable the situation could be for him.

"Not good?" he asked.

"Yeah, a little not good." Sherlock nodded and took a half step back from John.

"I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable, John..." the man laughed nervously.

"Yeah, just a little."

"You must understand, I was curious."

"So, it never occurred to you to ask?" Sherlock's face remained impassive, while revelation dawned on John's. "Is that why the furnace is broken? It that why I can't open the windows? You bloody wanker!" Sherlock flinched a bit at that last comment, before John burst into laughing.

"I fail to see what's so amusing here."

"You!" he said, once his breath returned to him. "Are the most brilliant, ridiculous, and most idiotic man I've ever met!"

"I am not an idiot." Sherlock bristled. John just smiled at him.

"Oh, don't take it personally, Sherlock. Most people are." John dried the suds from his hands and began to unbutton his shirt.

"What are you doing?" John rolled his eyes at Sherlock.

"And you call _me_ obtuse. I'm showing you my tattoo, Sherlock. Thus the removal of my shirt." The dress shirt was put to rest on the back of a chair, soon followed by the undershirt. John stood bare-chested in the filtered light, and Sherlock made the (not so detached) observation that this had to be the most intriguing sight Sherlock had ever seen.

As a whole now, Sherlock could observe that the mass of twisting knots in fact made a stylized Scottish dragon, all in blue-green ink. The whole beast covered his entire left arm down to his wrist, up his shoulder, spreading to his upper back and the left side of his chest. A muscular, well defined chest at that.

(Irrelevant data, Sherlock. Delete it.) He found, however, that this was not entirely possible. (Most intriguing.)

Sherlock was not even aware that he had closed what little space there was between himself and John. He lifted John's arm, observing every detail. The artist had done a spectacular job, certainly, as the ink was still bold and the patterns flawless.

Flawless, except for the bullet wound.

This was also the first time Sherlock had seen the scars. It looked painful, a deep circular pit surrounded by surgical scars. Not to mention all of the other scars from shrapnel, cuts, and a while litany of other injuries scattered across his arms and torso.

He wasn't even aware that he was ghosting his hands over John in what could be interpreted as a very... intimate fashion. The muscles in John's shoulders twitched slightly when the detective's cool hands touched his scar, effectively breaking the trance-like state he had been in.

"Well," said John finally pulling away from Sherlock. "If it's all fine with you, can we open the windows?" The (infernal) undershirt was slipped back on. (Yet, only the undershirt.)

"I guess so. The experiment is over now anyway." John grinned and shook his head, and Sherlock couldn't help but follow suit. Especially when John found out he actually_ had_ broken the window locks just to see the tattoo.

(Operation Highlander: success.)

* * *

_Fixed minor spelling errors and problems with italics. Thanks **Tutankhamun** for pointing that out!_


End file.
